‘I’m bloody sick and tired of watching a camel’s arse, complete with flies and regular consignments of turds and farts, in this bloody inferno.’
Yabet latched onto this, dropping back to chirp; ‘Ah, now you know how the men marching behind you feel!’
Both centuries of the XI Claudia erupted in laughter at this and Yabet moved quickly to the head of the column once more, ducking as if to avoid the volley of abuse hurled at him by Quadratus.
Eventually the sun dipped to the horizon, tinting the land in a rich orange hue. The men eagerly awaited dusk to come and sweep the heat away. At this point, they came to a small crater in the land ringed by rich green reeds.
A babble broke out amongst the ranks and one phrase surfaced. ‘Fresh water?’
They approached it eagerly, but sighs rang out when they saw that the crater contained only dust. Gallus’s jaw shuffled in annoyance as he looked around the arid land.
At this point, Yabet slid down the side of the basin. He looked around at the lie of the reeds above, scratched his jaw, then pulled out a dagger and began gouging at the dust of the basin wall below the thickest of the reeds. The dirt grew darker. First red, then dark-brown. Finally, as if the land had come to life, a muddy brown trickle spidered from the burrowed hole. A murmur of interest broke out, then grew to a raucous cheer when the muddy trickle became a clear, tumbling stream. Yabet held up a cupped hand to drink from the spring, then twisted round to the vexillatio with a broad grin that transcended language.
Gallus almost smiled. Almost. Then he gave the order to make camp for the night.
By the morning of the fifth day of the march, the rocky hillsides had fallen away, leaving flat, dusty steppe-land in every direction, even the hardy shrubs now absent. The heat was intense already and seemed ready to bake them once again. Then, just as the morale started to ebb, a ripple of excitement spread around the column.
‘There’s a road,’ Zosimus panted, seeing the edges of old, worn flagstones jutting from the dust here and there, running north to south.
‘The Strata Diocletiana?’ Gallus looked to Yabet and Carbo, who nodded in confirmation.
‘This is it, the Limes Arabicus. The edge of the empire.’ Carbo said.
‘The sandy arse of the empire, more like,’ Quadratus muttered.
But Carbo didn’t hear this. The centurion shaded his eyes, stretched out a finger and pointed north, then south. ‘You see the quadriburgia?’
Gallus strained to look along the road in both directions. He could make it out, just; in the horizon at each end, rippling in the heat haze, was a tiny, sun-bleached bump in the otherwise flat horizon.
‘Each of those forts house a cohort of limitanei. Some can even accommodate full legions. We should head south along this road. If we’ve stayed true to our course then that fort should hold a cohort of the III Cyrenaica . . . and a cistern-full of water!’
‘You know this place well?’ Gallus asked over the men’s cheers.
Carbo’s weathered features creased in a reminiscent grin. ‘Legio II Parthica once marched these lands like gods; the sight of our gold centaur banner was enough to ward off any threat from the east. Heroes to a man.’
An unspoken sense of calm and wellbeing spread across the column as they approached the southerly quadriburgium. From a distance, they could discern that it was a sturdy-looking medium sized fort with four protruding watchtowers, one at each corner. But when they arrived at the foot of the sun-bleached walls of the fortification, they saw only a handful of intercisa helms glinting atop the battlements. Equally, the expected tink-tink of hammers, whinnying of horses and babbling of men was curiously absent. There was no tang of wood smoke, nor the pungent reek of latrines.
‘A bit quiet, isn’t it?’ Quadratus grunted as they came to a halt at the foot of the northern gate.
Just then, a lone head popped over the top of the gatehouse. An aged, sunburnt legionary, his lips cracked and blistered, puffs of white hair poking out below a linen rag tied over his scalp. The old man threw an arm up in salute, and was swift and attentive in opening the gate. The men of the column were even hastier to pile inside and surround the shaded cistern by the eastern wall. But as Gallus entered, he swiftly understood Emperor Valens’ concerns. He counted just twenty-three legionaries dotted around the walls and honing tools and weapons in the workshop. A few of them wore battered intercisa helmets, but possessed no other armour.
‘So much for the full cohort,’ he muttered dryly to Carbo.
‘Aye, it would seem that much has changed since last I was here.’
The aged man from the walls scuttled down the stone steps, belying his years. He skidded to a halt before Gallus, squaring his shoulders. His skin was lashed with sweat and he was dressed in a worn linen tunic, sword belt and frayed sandals. Once more, he threw up his arm in salute.